Pilot

3/10/2018

See a Pie….Eat a Lot.

He only wore his collar when he went for a walk.

At the beach, I put him on a long rope. He had no fear of water, and he loved to swim through the deep tide pools.

Three weeks ago Pilot passed. He had turned ten last September.

When he left, I cried harder than any baby.

Last night I dreamt that we were strolling along the shore together. Unlike our actual beach strolls, he had no leash. In the dream and in real life, everyone was so impressed by how well behaved he was.

I often cry while thinking about “My Boy.” Selfishly, I cry because I no longer have him with me.

Dale

Monday 6/20/2016

I was the only pall bearer at the demise of my good four legged friend Dale today.

“Daily Dale” was ten. We raised him as a pup; he went off to be a guide dog briefly; and then he came back to be our pet again.

He was a big black lab who never liked the water.

His special trick was putting the dog toys “in the bucket” around bedtime. He never fully grasped the logic of that particular transaction, but he was always willing to work for treats.

The link below is to a Wikipedia article that contains a poem written by Lord Byron after the death of his Newfoundland dog, Boatswain. Use the link to read the whole article; or visit the monument and read the inscription at Newstead Abbey, Byron’s estate; or since it is in the public domain, it appears below.

Wikipedia article

Epitaph to a Dog

Written by John Hobhouse, a friend

Near this Spot

are deposited the Remains of one

who possessed Beauty without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery

if inscribed over human Ashes,

is but a just tribute to the Memory of

Boatswain, a Dog

who was born in Newfoundland May 1803

and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808

The Poem

Written by Lord Byron (1808)

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,

Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth,

The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rests below.

When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been.

But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,

Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –

Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye, who behold perchance this simple urn,

Pass on – it honours none you wish to mourn.

To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one — and here he lies.